Star Wars: Nataraja
by Lynne the Canuck
Summary: This story was written 9 years ago 1999 . I came across it while cleaning out some old files on my hard drive - sort of like stumbling on something interesting in grandma's attic. Enjoy!


Disclaimer: This is a work of original fan fiction based on characters and situations created by George Lucas and copyrighted to Lucasfilm, Ltd.. The intent of this work is for the entertainment of fans of the middle trilogy of the Star Wars saga, and is not intended to garner payment in any form. This work may be copied, linked, or re-posted as long as this disclaimer accompanies any such action and the author is notified in writing. Comments are welcomed, but please use civility. Do not respond with viruses, profanity, or any other destructive correspondence. 

**Summary:**  
A long-range probe, ancient beyond rendering, carried within it a single document: a story - a myth, really - to a world, a culture, and a time in desperate need of its themes of rare hope, faith, and love. It was more than a just a story, it was deliverance to a culture suffocating from crisis and indulgent cynicism.

**Warning to Sensitive Readers:**** This composition deals with substance abuse. **

****

**STAR WARS: Nataraja **

© Copyright 1999, Lynne Freels

_All men dream: but not equally.  
Those who dream by night  
in the dusty recesses of their minds  
wake in the day to find that it was vanity:  
but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men,  
for they may act their dreams with open eyes,  
to make it possible. _

**-- Thomas Edward Lawrence (a.k.a. Lawrence of Arabia), 1919 (Attributed) **

_**I**n Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below. _

_We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,  
In Flanders fields. _

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with us who die  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields._

**-- Major John McCrae[Canadian 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Ypres salient, France, 1915 **

_When you realise the value of all life,  
you dwell less on what is past  
and concentrate on the preservation of the future_

**-- Dr. Dian Fossey, Rowanda, Africa, 1985 **

_**PROLOGUE: If You Go Chasing Rabbits **_

**Yavin IV **

A clipped clink sound interrupted the nightly clamour of the jungle moon. A shadow on the top of the ancient temple deflated into a sitting position and flared what looked like wings within the hazy orange glow of the gas giant hovering overhead. Inside the folds of the darkened shape, a startling red flash revealed and contrasted the face of a myth.

A hand, its youthful skin taught and smooth, reached out to delicately remove something unseen from a metal coffer. As the contents were sprinkled over the sanguine glow, it flickered brilliantly before heating to a steady white, exhaling a heavy grey smoke skyward, and sending the face once again into obscurity.

A voice, deepened a little with age and mind-numbing costs, desperately tried to seduce the euphoria of an irretrievable, defining moment.

"Master, are you awake?"

The voice, although hesitant, was real; it also would not go away. Drowsy and overly warm, Luke Skywalker sent his student off to eat lunch and stretch, while he persuaded himself to begin another day.

A short time later, with a backpack and a cup of stim tea in his hand, he joined the lone student at the Academy's threshold. Smiling a greeting, he indicated for her to begin the basic exercises. Using a practice sabre, she began in a classic ready position, with the blade held vertically by the right side of her head.

"No," he said, tapping her foot with the back of his hand. "You're becoming sloppy. When you have made the decision to draw your lightsabre in any situation, you must strike reflexively and very accurately. You can do neither without practising the proper basic actions and strokes. Now watch carefully how I position my eyes, feet, and hands."

He called his lightsabre to him from the back pack, and it fell into a firm left-handed grip, with his right holding it in a light finger grip a few centimetres below the weapon's guard. He straightened his back, drawing his shoulders back as a result. Holding his head erect, he looked straight ahead.

"You see that the lightsabre is held at the centre of my body," he said without turning to face her. "This is the position you should adopt in most situations, because if you are being attacked, it serves as a defensive posture. At the same time, when an unguarded opportunity arises, you can also attack from this same posture, like so."

In a flash, eight training remotes breached the folds of the backpack. At that same instant, the Master's lightsabre ignited.

He used his left hand to rotate the blade and thrust behind him into the first remote. Withdrawing it from the sparking remains, he switched to his right hand, and in one continuous sweep, deflected the bolts fired from the two remotes on his right.

"The lightsabre is an elegant, but short-range weapon; therefore, you must move with this in mind, but don't be limited by it." The fourth remote was impaled on the return sweep; its bolts, thereby, re-aimed into the two on the Master's left.

"You should take into account all possible countermoves your opponent could make, but don't allow such considerations to impede the effectiveness of your reactions." He moved the weapon in whip-like slashes, taking out two more remotes.

"The Force will help you anticipate most of this, but it should never be utilized alone. Your reliance should weigh equally on your instincts, experience, and basic sabre wielding skills." Then, turning, he flipped backward while reversing his hold on the hilt. When the two remaining remotes advanced, the Master parried and destroyed them with a slashing stroke.

Attaining a crouching position, the Master reclaimed his tea and continued the lesson. He knew what she would ask, without probing of any sort; every previous student had asked him the same thing. "If you have the luxury to do so," he answered her. "You can continue with your exercises now."

He sipped some of the still warm liquid to refresh himself. "Try to disarm or diffuse your opponent -- with words, if that's all you have left," he said. "There's currently no galactic war, but as a Jedi Knight, you'll be sent into local skirmishes.

"If your life, or that of others is in immanent danger," he continued in a piercing voice, "then your attack must be aggressive and final. A dead opponent won't kill you; a wounded one might." This was what he considered to be the central mind-set during combat. Without absolute belief in this conviction, a mission would probably fail – with all the enmeshment such failure dragged after it.

Wincing from the effects of his voice, the pause in her practice exercise was fractional, but unacceptable. "But, how will I avoid becoming angry or scared in such a situation?"

She saw him carefully set his cup down on the stone next to him, and in the next instant was, herself, laying flat on the stone with the tip of the Master's practice blade thrust to within centimetres of her throat. He had moved too quickly for her to witness, much less block his attack.

He had to repeat himself. "What did you just feel?"

Stunned, she responded, "Nothing. I didn't have time to think."

"Exactly."**  
**

_**CHAPTER ONE: The Whole World's Watching **_

**Coruscant**

"It's mid-afternoon at that Academy, and despite the fact that we've had to inconvenience ourselves to accommodate him, he still can't be bothered to link in on time!"

While the Gavanian Senator's voice maintained the expected shrill quality in his protests to the other Commissioners, the uncontrollable texture of his skin indicated that indignation was not what lay at the base of his dealings with the Jedi Master. "This is a prime example of the lack of regard that Skywalker holds for this committee and for due process in general, as we shall see from the evidence I've gathered."

"You better have more than that if you intend to remove him," the Burgeon Royal Representative cautioned. "Skywalker is still very popular amongst the NR citizenry, and as such, I need not tell you that general high regard of this caliber will hold considerable sway against us should we be perceived as harming him, by the population and its media."

The Gavanian's eyes narrowed in a mirthless gesture, reassuring the others that he held damaging evidence regarding the Jedi's recent habits; evidence that the Senate could not overlook. "Their only choice," he concluded, "will be to remove Skywalker from the Jedi Project; preferably from public life altogether."

"What if he doesn't comply?" The Burgeon pointed out, "Again: Skywalker's popularity is nothing to be trifled with; it allows him the clout to refuse with few repercussions."

Secreting a false calm, he leaned further back in his chair. Indignation was an acceptable mood of persuasion to some of the representatives in the Senate; anger rarely was. He would use this break in the conversation to gather himself.

Certainly, Burgeonians were not swayed by any emotional exhibition. While the Royal Representative's condoning of the removal of the last Skywalker from a position of power was not necessary, her support would garner the respect of the President and his Inner Council, and make them that much more willing to acquiess to his proposal.

The Jedi Master and the Presidential Advisor had hissed into the ear of centralised power for too long. They were only two voices within the babble of the New Republic, but it was their voices, their increasingly immovable opinions and narrowing points of view, that the Inner Council continued to hear above all others. Why this trespass of evolution refused to wither after so long was absurd.

It was as if their minds had been overwritten.

Each year, the New Republic faltered under such prolonged, smothering influence. Each year, it became less effective in all matters from the per centage of annual increase of produce, to the policing of delinquent systems. It was a fallacy of what it should now be.

"Not this time," he concluded, "The Senate will, of course, have to take into consideration his service to the Republic. That is why they will offer him the dignity of retirement; the alternative being the ugly consequences of exposure.

"I believe he will choose to announce his own withdrawl. Our involvement in this process, thereore, need not be mentioned."

"Ah, finally!" The Advisor to the New Republic President straightened from her strained slouch as her brother's image appeared on her comm station. "It's nice to know that you treat everyone with equal disregard."

"Don't start with me, Leia," Luke cautioned. "I've already had to endure the Guardianship Commission's lectures, I don't need to listen to a rebroadcast."

"Well, that is what the Gavanian Senator asked the President to discuss with you. He, in turn, thought that such chastisement would sound better coming from me. So much for retirement," she said, folding her arms. "And what's with the long hair and the beard?"

"What? You don't like it?" He stroked the closely trimmed facial hair as he would a pet. "I think it gives me character."

"As if you weren't one already."

Leia rubbed her eyes, and continued, "You can't simply dismiss the Commission. Under New Republic Law, whether you like it or not, you must report your activities involving the Academies to them at regular intervals." She paused to examine his countenance. "You've been acting strangely lately and I'm concerned about you on many levels; so, now I'm asking you as your sister, and not as the Advisor, to tell me what's wrong. Are you ill?"

"You still have beautiful fingers, you know," he replied seductively. "But, you shouldn't use them to rub your piquant eyes with."

Blinking, Leia found herself staring at her hands with an unaccountable feeling of great pleasure. "Stop that! I don't have time for this! My daughter finally remembered she has a mother, and you're keeping me from a nice lunch with her. Just do me a favour, and behave for once!"

In answer, he sighed and looked at something out of view. "Listen," Leia began gently, "we all have rules to follow. If this particular set disturbs you into rebellion, then perhaps it's time to withdraw."

Luke looked up sharply and smiled. "And you tell me you have no telepathic abilities!" Sobering, he continued, "I've given considerable thought to this already. Security wasn't the only reason I dispersed the various Jedi disciplines throughout the Republic. It all came down to choosing the date, anyway."

Leia shifted in her seat. "While your passion has brought us to the zenith of existence, it's also apparent that you haven't taken the time recently to reassess its foundation. I think that it's this lack of awareness that is, in the very least, not allowing you to utilise it correctly."

His brows lowered to shadow his eyes. "Define 'correctly'."

Unperturbed, she answered him in the same cold tone, "There's a pattern that here that's increased lately. This same passion that allowed for the defeat of a murderous tyrant decades ago has been steadily devolving into acts of violation that, if allowed to continue unchecked, will result in extreme defilement."

Wounded by this, he rashly proclaimed, "Then, I can't teach anymore. In order to instruct my student, I must also be the mark towards which she strives. Apparently, I now lack the control of self and situation essential in this discipline; so, I'm going to roll my current Art of the Sabre student over to another instructor, and shut down Yavin IV completely."

Within a stunned silence, Leia managed to absorb all the repercussions this announcement entailed. "You don't do anything half way, do you?"

"I wouldn't have survived this long if I did. It's also because there's very little grey in the way I think. There's a lot in my hair, though. Hey, would you do me a favour, and transfer me to the head of the Department of Astronomical Sciences?"

"Why?"

"My student and I are debating a detail about black holes," he said smoothly, "and I'd like to prove my point."

Leia drew her lips into a thin line and commented, "Luke, I thought you'd have known better than to even attempt lying to me; you lack the guile to pull it off successfully."

She held up her hand to silence whatever else he was going to say. "This business with the Guardianship Commission wasn't the only reason I contacted you. The Department of Veterans' Affairs has extended a personal invitation to you to speak at the fortieth Anniversary of Victory at Endor Day next Coruscant month. You now have the chance to tell me the truth in person. Leia out." With a quick flick of her nail, she shut the comm station down.

_**CHAPTER TWO: Better Free Your Mind Instead **_

He had seen holovids of it, but they could not prepare him for the emotional impact of standing in the penumbra cast by the Memorial to the Alliance. It was immense.

Slowly, Luke began walking down the length of the Dead, stopping at one point to touch the names of his lost friends with the tips of his fingers; the youthful appearance of the prosthetic accentuating the distance in years between them.

Nothing but time could assuage the anguish of bereavement. And now, even the fact that his friend had lived had almost drowned in its passage. "Tank, I'd forgotten you."

After the Battle of Yavin, desperately needing comfort from someone from his childhood, Luke had tried to track Tank down. Worried that his friend was not listed in any recent Alliance roster, the Rebel Hero of the Moment had enlisted the services of one of the splicers to check Imperial records.

He found him there. Tank's memorial had been nothing more than the economically ugly summary, 'Executed: treason'.

Later, after hearing of Luke's search, a mission commander told him that the former farmer had been on his first mission for the Rebellion when he, and three others, had been captured by Imperial agents. That had been six months before Luke even left Tatooine.

All those who had guided his childhood, shared his adolescent dreams, were dead. Dead, long ago. He had laid a costly sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Luke whispered to the stone, "but I don't have it in me to continue the fight we started. Forgive me."

Rubbing his blurred vision with a knuckle, he lost his focus. "So many ..." he breathed.

'There's too many of them!' 'Stay on target.' 'I can't!' 'Stay on target!'  
'No, wait! Wait!' 'They're coming in too fast!' 'I can't hold them off!'

"Luke!"

Dazed, Luke yanked his eyes from the names in the stone toward the cocky young pilot in the old style flight suit. "Wedge?"

"What, forget me in your old age?"

Blinking once, his sight cleared to reveal a man in his early sixties, brown off-service uniform accenting the wrinkle-framed eyes. "No, of course not. I was just ... remembering, and surprisingly not Endor, but Yavin."

"That's interesting, because for me it's the opposite, maybe because I understood more about what was at stake during Endor. At Yavin," Wedge smiled, embarrassed, "it was almost like -- I don't want to say a 'game', but I suppose the word I'm looking for is 'thrilling'."

The smile collapsed into a hard expression as his gaze shifted to a name on the Memorial. "It's hard sometimes to come to this place. But, if we don't remember, I don't think anyone else will. People today either don't know about the Rebellion or don't care. They're too concerned with the present to bother with the past."

Shaking his head to clear it of bitterness, the retired General appraised his old friend. It had been years since he last saw Luke. Too long a separation, he thought. He could still see the remnants of scars on the cleanly shaven face, but the eyes encased something more than the mind-numbing effects of battle, which Wedge knew was not reflected in his own. It was a blackness of spirit that echoed the neo-Jedi attire. He could also see his own reaction begin to squeeze into those eyes, before Luke looked away.

"Come down to the hanger with me," Wedge offered, with a grin and a pat on Luke's shoulder. "I've been planning this since I heard you were coming. I've got something I think will cheer us up."

A short while later, the grin had widened enough to cause his cheek muscles to ache. From the wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression on the face beside him, Wedge knew his excitement was duplicated in full.

"A new type of X-Wing?" Luke asked, uncertain.

"No. That model was retired. This, my friend, is its successor: the O-16 All-Environmental T-Wing."

"All environments ..." Luke repeated, entranced. Unable to resist, he moved to within touching distance of the ship before looking back at Wedge, as a child would look to a parent, for permission to proceed.

"Go ahead," he said, laughing. "You should see what she has, Luke!" As if describing his child's achievements, he listed the fighter's attributes: class 1.8 ion drives; advanced ion stream projectors; advanced stream-lined hyperspace profile -- this allowing for better control of the continuum warp; four long-range cannons that could rotate independently of each other, following directives from the targeting computer and eliminating the need for the wings to spread in an 'X' configuration.

"So, without the need for such wing deployment, you get greater stability," he concluded, "and this will let you continue the battle in almost any environment. Well, this and improved shielding, and so on. Want to know how fast she goes?"

Luke nodded mutely, overwhelmed. "Two-hundred and ninety one MGLT, in a straight-line chase," Wedge announced, beaming. "The fastest model of Tie Defender got only 282 MGLT.

"Why don't you check out the cockpit," he offered.

Luke dropped the hand that had been caressing the hull. "Oh, no. I couldn't," he protested, unconvincingly. "It's been years since I've flown."

"Don't be silly! You flew that relic of a T-22 until it finally fell apart three years ago."

"Yeah, well I only got that thing after my T-65 finally died," Luke remarked. "By that time, FreiTek didn't make them anymore. I still think it had superior manoeuvrability over the T-22."

"All a matter of what you're use to. The O-16 here almost flies itself; it's so easy! Besides, the flight plan has already been cleared and is waiting in the navicomputer for you to press the button. More than that, though," Wedge added, with amusement, "I took a lot of blows to my pride dealing with publicity types and officers a quarter my age to convince them that -- "

" -- That I should pilot the ship during the opening ceremonies," Luke finished, his eyes never once loosing their hold on the fighter. "If she's anything like what you describe, you can start forwarding my messages to the cockpit."

From Wedge's perspective, Luke seemed to disappear. Surprised, he looked around the hanger at eye-level, before realising that his Jedi friend had leaped into the cockpit, eight meters above him.

"This is fantastic!"

"And she's your retirement gift from a 'grateful' Republic," he shouted up to him. "Naturally though, since you now own an NR fighter, don't expect this same Republic not to come calling whenever they need an extra pilot."

He paused, considering his long-time friend's permeating delight. "You should have kept flying, Luke. It's always been where you're happiest."

"But it wasn't where I was needed," he said. "Thanks for doing this for me, Wedge."

_**CHAPTER THREE: King of Pain **_

The door of his suite slid aside and, through long habit, a mildly surprised Lando Calrissian did a quick assessment of his unexpected visitor: the blackened desert robes did not hide the still, watchful attitude of his body; his pale complexion and emotionless expression were like a defensive mask, made all the more intimidating by the hand that rested before him on the hilt of his lightsabre. Uncomfortable by this impenetrability, Lando could discern nothing of the truth at the base of this visit.

Lifting his eyes, Luke broke the spell. "May I come in?"

"It's usually me who comes to you whenever you visit Coruscant," Lando said, motioning him to a chair inside. "That was a nice speech you gave, even if you did startle us with that announcement."

"Thanks," Luke acknowledged, relaxing a little. "The first draft wasn't nearly so uplifting, but I figured that it was nicer to exit softly rather than harshly -- there's too much of that around as it is."

A pause followed. Believing that his friend's uncharacteristic defensiveness with him originated from the prospect of retirement, Lando asked for the accuracy behind the decision.

"It's nothing as dramatic as what I told the public," Luke answered, absently running his fingers through his freshly shortened hair. "I'm just too tired and old to put up with the constant critiques and undermining that goes on every time I interact with the Guardianship Commission, and especially with that new Executive Director."

It was difficult to contain his anger, ignited now just at the mention of that Gavanian. He regularly created problems from a concoction of low self-esteem, bullying tactics, and coercion; but, he was too entrenched with powerful connections and longevity to be easily removed from office.

"The Director is typical of the Leadership, in general, and galactic society as a whole. The Rebellion's beliefs in the autonomy and dignity of the individual has collapsed into decadence and corruption."

This line of thought had increasingly caused Luke a great deal of self-imposed aggravation and stress in the last few months, to the extent that he had entertained violent fantasies about the Director. "The breakdown of morals and spiritualism," he continued, "is a direct result of the narrow-mindedness and foolishness of the citizenry itself. Why I fought for the belief that ethical leadership would result in some sort of general wisdom, is naive at best. The New Republic turned out to be the same as the Old: weak and absurd."

Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear such unhealthy excitement. "Ah, well, it doesn't concern me anymore -- I've done all the open-eyed dreaming I care to do."

"Wow, that was quite a tirade," Lando commented, dryly, handing Luke a drink.

"I'd finally played that game long enough, too. You either don't allow it bother you, play by the same rules, or you get out," the former self-proclaimed baron gently offered. "I'm old enough now, and more importantly solvent enough, to walk away from it all to concentrate on what really matters in life: enjoying it, as much and as often as I can!"

A small silence ensued as the long-time friends upended their glasses to let the hot liquid ooze down their throats. When Lando was sure that his voice would not squeak from the drink's effects, he caught Luke's eyes. "And that's what you need to do before you give yourself an ulcer. There's too much out there for you to let some scum eat away at you like this."

Uncomfortable that he had allowed himself the luxury of ranting, Luke nevertheless, relaxed a little. "The irony is that I finally understand what Han meant by preferring a straight fight to this sort of political subterfuge."

He sighed again. "I can't really use your solution, because there's a lot more going on than that." He paused then, unsure of how to proceed. If Lando was truly enjoying life, as he claimed, why then spoil his happiness?

"Like everyone else, I've had my share of regrets about what I could have done differently to improve, as well as being disappointed - to put it mildly - at what I could not control. It's funny how that dissatisfaction appears to increase with age," Luke said. "But, what's really throwing my balance off is these visions of the future I've been having. They've become worse in recent months, to the extent that I can't control when they take hold."

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "You know, I was really relaxed and enjoying myself too, before they emerged and ruined everything."

Frowning at this unexpected admission, Lando was about to press Luke for more information on these visions, when he noticed a sudden flush that appeared on his friend's cheeks and forehead. Leaning forward, he touched the other's skin. "You're a little hot. Are you feeling alright?"

"It was a long trip from Yavin," he answered smoothly, "and the greeting Health Services gives everyone upon arrival is no treat, either."

Folding his arms, Luke continued with the deception. "I guess that packing people into an inescapable world-city makes Coruscant an easy feeding ground for pathogens, but the examination seemed to be a little on the xenophobic side.

"Enough of all that," he said, rising to inspect Lando's entertainment equipment. "I'm sorry for complaining so much. I seem to do that too often lately."

Snorting, he stared up at the ceiling for a moment. "I'm starting to turn into my uncle, and believe me, that's a scary metamorphosis."

Turning back, he quickly changed the subject. "I need to get out. Are you free tonight?"

Puzzled by Luke's uncharacteristic ill-tempered outburst, he confronted him. "You mean on a date? Sorry, but dark brooding characters haven't ever been on my list of what's fun. I do, however, know many refined ladies who'd like to accept your invitation."

"Fine."

Taken aback by the unexpected response, Lando shook his head and resigned from further analysis. "You're just one big contradiction tonight! All right, you relax. I'll make all the arrangements. I know this quiet little restaurant -- serves some of the best spoo you've ever tasted."

Lando stood and indicated an adjacent room for Luke to rest in before dinner. "Borrow one of my cloaks; you need to wear some colour that will distract from the red in your face -- not that that would make any difference to an Arawn."

"An Arawn?"

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Lando explained, "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Oh."

"Oh?! That's all you have to say? Maker, you really did need to retire if that's all the reaction I can get out of you."

Pouring two more helpings of the liquor, Lando paused. "You have to let yourself enjoy life, Luke -- have some fun, no matter what -- otherwise there's no point to it."

The other allowed his mind to wander as he mesmerised himself with the liquor's colour and texture. "That would require more mind altering abilities than any Jedi has -- living or dead."

Avoiding eye contact, Luke's shoulders sagged. "Look, Lando, I don't mean to be difficult," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my mind, you know?"

They sat quietly together for a moment. Reaching out finally to clasp his old friend's wrists, Lando waited until Luke was comfortable enough to meet his gaze. "You once said that 'a Jedi can't get so caught up in matters of galactic importance that it interferes with his concern for individual people'," he said. "Whatever the galaxy wants from you now, it simply can't have. You need to be concerned with one individual: Luke, who lives in the present. You can't worry about any other moment in time, or you'll stress yourself into an early grave."

His sigh created tiny ripples in the liquor that lapped at the skin below his nose as he drank deeply. "Right now," he replied with a small smile, "my concern is Leia's reaction when I cancel my dinner plans with her tonight."

"Is that why you came here - because you're not getting along with your sister?"

A silent shrug was the only answer Lando received, but it was enough to fizzle any further questions. "Well, you needed a proper send-off into retirement," he said dismissively. "And I'm glad to be the man to provide you with it!"

_**CHAPTER FOUR: Piece of My Heart **_

Taking his boots off, Luke stretched himself diagonally across the guest bed. Tired, he found that his mind's self-review revoked his ability to sleep.

Forty years ago, he had brought back home what his adolescent friends had talked, read, and dreamed about. There was, indeed, more than the conservative, cocooning nature of society on Tatooine. He showed them that if they could not leave, as he had done, they could at least think for themselves.

He also understood that the unconscionable consequence of that enrichment was a direct result of his inability to at once assimilate and agitate any system. Despite the eclectic nature of variegated societies, they all expected him to become iconoclastic: a Jedi Knight was to suppress feeling, mask fears, and master the techniques of power and control.

The impossibility of maintaining this pretence of grave seriousness, over time devolved Luke's credibility in the Senate and in the financial community. Without such significant support, many of his projects were aborted; but he would not sacrifice his emotions to appease anyone's expectations. To do so would forfeit his individuality and his humanity.

It was this same loyalty to self that now caused him such pain. From the information he obtained from the Department of Astronomical Sciences, he knew exactly when and where the reality of his catastrophic visions would manifest. The mental anguish was as if he was trapped in a submersible, diving into a crushing abyss by its own power, as depth charges plummeted after him.

How to quantify that? How to give thought to the very reality of it? He was Prometheus -- dying in indefinable pain, only to find that he could breathe, his heart still beating in tune with all that still lived.

Escape was the only solution; so, he continued to try to fully regain the epiphany of the moment, forty years ago when he proclaimed, "I AM a Jedi". Then, it did not matter that the vilest of tyrants in recorded time, stood seething before him; or that behind him, the last of the Sith writhed in the rebirth of the man who was denied existence.

It did not matter that his friends were fighting and dying all around him. None of it was as important as this cognisance. If he had died in the next instant, it would have signified nothing, because matter, time, and all existence were perfected in the birth of a new consciousness - a new awareness of being.

For that one instant, he had evolved beyond himself. There was something more important than all that he knew; but at some point, whether suddenly or gradually, he could not recall, he allowed duty and daily commitments to overwrite the potential that this new awareness had allowed. He had, in some ways, become like his father: he had failed to achieve a realisation.

He had wanted to believe that if he had consummated with this evolution before, there was a possibility he could do so again; but, as the future crept nearer, and he continued to fail, he realised that the best he could hope to obtain for himself was a chaotic decay of reason. Yet, even while his aberrant feigns of sanity grew infrequent, he found himself clinging to the concept of family and friends to sustain him. Rejection and solitude panicked him.

These self-feeding circles of inevitability provoked him to anaesthetise himself against the sudden, hideous silence of voices that would bludgeon his mind completely.

_**CHAPTER FIVE: Where the Streets Have No Name **_

At dusk, Luke emerged from the guestroom dressed in a green cloak with a gold headband. His attire blended the haggardness away from his features.

"Luke, may I present Cailleach Bheur," Lando said, elegantly gesturing toward the Arawn.

Her face was blue-black, and she dressed in grey. The scent of Myrrh curled around her as she moved to greet him. Luke thought that she was one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Delicately taking his hand, she silently lead him away from the light and clean structures at the summit of the city-world, down, below its roots.

Each building had been added upon by successive competitive generations, so that their absurd height, of itself, made them appear distorted and complicated by artifice. A myriad of spires, precariously suspending their brilliant halos of light, cast vast penumbras that obscured their foundations in a perpetual twilight. It was at once beautiful and unnerving.

At its lowest level, that on which one could almost see the earth beneath its metallic clothes, all of the ugly things of the day were hidden in darkness so that, if one allowed it, only the comely remained: the tiny lights that lit the naked branches of genetically altered trees, shimmered off a layer of moisture that never seemed to evaporate from the walkway. Music from the clubs floated all around them on a lazy, drifting haze of perfumes and parched leaves.

He couldn't loose this consciously filtered perception. It was too beautiful, and he needed to saturate himself in the soft lining of this half-truth. Tilting his head back, he reached out for the cooling skin of this night's companion, trying to fill a need through touch.

The Jedi had willed this sensual reverie to sedate his watchfulness into a false tranquillity, allowing a shadow to uncouple itself from one of the myriad of grimly darkened, shielded doorways, to devour the Brakiri who walked behind them.

For a time, Luke did nothing to help the spluttering victim -- a voyeuristic unwillingness to conjure a philanthropic urge to action. This, it seemed, was a more honest attack on perceived weakness, than the deceit of the minority who hoarded ungovernable power.

He blinked. All around him, indistinct shapes, eyes averted, shuffled obliviously up and down the walkways. Watching this promenade, its spiking fear contorting faces into ugliness and intensifying the misery of existence, Luke's own face twisted to display a pathetic sense of loss.

More due to the habit of duty than to compassion, the Jedi's right hand rose in a gesture of protection. "I'm hungry," he told his companion, and he hurriedly led her away to avoid the sound of the victim's exhaled release.

A haunting tune lured him to a restaurant, its dark red nametag hidden by the shade of a hawthorn tree. He hesitated at the threshold. "Eildon Sidhe," he read out loud, swirling the name on his pallet. Once again, the Arawn grasped his hand, inviting him to follow her.

With some uneasiness, he entered with her into a chamber that was both splendid and private: faint light reflected off of puddles of black dishes; its dark walls warmed to a medium blue where points of flame from orange and black candles lit. The pure obsolescence of the atmosphere, intensified by the smell of sandalwood, made him feel apart from time.

"You wear a veil of vanilla, but it is not enough to hide what imprisons you in the past." He turned to face her, the lighting ageing her features into that of a crone.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he bowed his head and beheld his own reflection in the plate before him. With a strangled cry, he ran from it, flinging his cloak and headband aside, his black apparel blending into the forever night at the city's depths.

_**CHAPTER SIX: At the Gates of Delirium **_

Like a ghoul obscured in fog, frantic with pain, the mythical man walked unnoticed past security, past maintenance, past controllers and travellers. The higher level droids who did observe him did not, however, remark at his passing.

Weeping in silent shivers, he leaped into the cockpit of his O-16 and started the engines cold. The converters' answering rumble lifted the oppressive atmosphere, as he rose, then dove like a Peko-Peko, manoeuvring the T-16 through the narrow canyon of buildings. A flash on his proximity sensor advised him that Fixer was rapidly gaining and would overtake him if he didn't attempt to "thread" the Needle. At this speed, it was a reckless manoeuvre but it was more important that Luke win this race -- and the respect he craved -- than face the shame and ridicule of losing to Fixer again.

"O-16 Pilot, this is the Third-Fifth Grid Coruscant Flight Enforcement. You have not been pre-authorised for departure. Set your craft down at the co-ordinates indicated on your navicomputer. Respond!"

Confused, he slowed the vessel as he stared out the cockpit windows at the indicator lights of passing airborne craft and the distinctly singular lights exhaled through the windows of the buildings that blurred, overly bright, in the depths below.

It was like the view of the galaxy from the Medical Frigate that he remembered utilising as a focus for meditation after his death on Bespin. He had barely survived the physical trauma, but that was the first of many times to come that he had truly died. His strength had lain in his simplicity and capacity for sacrifice; but, his own motivations had abused that capacity so that he now emerged from these ordeals weakened.

It seemed to him that the concept of immutability was simply a stratagem of coercion and stability. Either of these states slowed healthy evolution. It had been the kind of life Owen had chosen. The Twins of Tatooine had been the pillar of fire that had kept the mirage of safety contained while deflecting the power of fear.

Luke had romantically seen himself and his twin sister in the same way, except that their influence extended far beyond the confines of one system. Freedom was the basis of growth and true power, but just as the suns of his homeworld could not escape the pull of natural forces, neither could he. He had never, truly, been free.

What now slithered toward the present would destroy the one place where, beneath the blankets of his bed, the night was a sweet, deep-down peace. What a terrible weight it was that would not let him fly.

" ... including deadly force, if you do not comply immediately," his cockpit speakers bellowed. "O-16 Pilot, this is your last warning!"

The fighter suddenly dropped altitude. Reducing speed to a glide, it came in behind the three leading C.F.E. ships. Accelerating to within safe firing distance, all four of its laser cannons swivelled.

As soon as the targets were locked onto, dashes of light elicited three columns of smoke. Even as the damaged ships struggled to make emergency landings, a convoy of curious onlookers and official vessels that had been following at a distance, sped up to resume the chase.

'Live to fly another day.'

His sensors suddenly signalled a warning. Luke hadn't expected his remote pursuers to act so stupidly. Activating counter measures, he then dove and pulled the O-16 in a tight, starboard break turn, heading into a narrow channel of office buildings. The laser bolts destined to incapacitate him instead destroyed a nearby balcony.

Dropping more sensor ghosts, he dove further into the guts of the city, making a hard break turn to port, then increased his speed. Someone, though, had anticipated his move: the fighter bounced in reaction to the pull of a tractor beam from above.

"Luke, what the hell are you doing?!"

"Wedge?"

_**CHAPTER SEVEN: Comfortably Numb **_

The colours of one of the larger of the hospital's privacy chambers were chosen as those found to be soothing to most species. Despite the same desired effect of her husband's light stroking of her hand, Leia 's exclusionary focus on what the 21B droid was telling her of, made all such stimuli moot.

"The humanoid psychology specialist, who is concluding his assessments of your brother's mental condition, is expected to attend this meeting toward its conclusion."

Han couldn't decide what he hoped the assessment concluded, or if he should feel anger or anxiety because of it. If his brother-in-law was found mentally competent, he would be responsible for the consequences of his bizarre behaviour, and that would be the least of his worries. If, on the other hand, he was found incompetent to stand trial, he'd probably spend the rest of his life under constant medical supervision. Either way, he'd loose his freedom.

"We have the results of tissue analysis tests." The medical droid's design parameters intentionally would not allow the development of subjective judgements; so that when it told the two humans before it that near lethal levels of the hallucinogenic, ayahuasca, had been found in Luke's body, its voice never paused dramatically or modulated in any way. It simply imparted facts and further, subtler, intentions did not exist.

"That's not like him at all," Leia protested. "Maybe someone drugged him without him being aware of it. Everyone at his level of political and social power has made a lot of enemies in their career."

"He has admitted to ingesting the substance himself," the droid said.

"How long has this been going on?" There were more questions generated in this surreal meeting than Leia had prepared for.

"The condition of the samples indicate that ayahuasca had been administered over the course of two point twenty-five Coruscant years," the droid elaborated. "The samples also indicate that the hallucinogenic was, in fact, a crude mixture of certain jungle vines."

"Let me guess," Han interjected. "There's a lot of these vines on Yavin IV."

Glancing at his wife's expression, he amended, "Don't answer that."

Silently, Leia tried to accept the empirical evidence that contradicted her impressions of her brother. Her convictions regarding his character would not allow for her to acknowledge what she believed was a particular weakness and utter despair that lay at the base of substance addiction.

He was tender, but not innocent. He had shown unparalleled strength in following through with his convictions, and had overcome merciless opposition, scarred but strengthened in the purity of his philanthropic beliefs. There was nothing that should beat him into apathy.

Staring at polarised mental images of Luke and his position, she asked the medical droid what effect this hallucinogenic induced. Did it enhance the Force? Was it, therefore, related to his position and not a negative reflection on his character?

"In most humanoids, the effects of the drug are drowsiness, physical warmth, and a feeling of contentment. Most addicts also report that it relieves them of stress and discomforts by creating detachment from pain, desires, and activity."

"Strength in weakness," Leia muttered.

"So the questions is" Han said, "what's he trying to escape from?"

"You ask why I can't speak to you," he said in a monotone, and thought of long polar nights. Home was somewhere in the darkness.

'Please make me well,' he pleaded silently to no one. 'I promise anything, just make me well.'

"You're very fortunate that the results of psychological analysis spared you from the humiliation of a public trial." His actions hurt her on many levels, and Leia's anger distended in defence.

"The Gavanian Senator, in particular, would have enjoyed seeing not only you but also me, by familial association, condemned through the media," she continued, in a forced calm. "It most certainly would have undermined the authority of the government, of which we are considered the founders."

She moved away from the bed, vainly attempting to encourage objectivity with distance. "Why, Luke?! What was worth destroying everything for?"

There was a blank defensiveness in his eyes when he looked up at her. He was unassailable. "Wounds are all that's left of me. It will end." His speech slurred to a stop.

For the first time since she'd known him, she found it difficult to care about him.

Unblinking, he refocused on her. 'Go away,' his mind whimpered. "I just want to sleep. I can't be responsible for anything anymore; so, I'm withdrawing."

"And that's all? How can I possibly trust you again?" Leia said, her head jutting forward from tensed shoulders. Turning to leave, she addressed his ghostly reflection in the door's window. "You've disappointed both of us."

Left alone, then, amongst the shards of his secrets, he stared at nothing -- inured with caustic saturation -- until induced sleep relieved him.

_**CHAPTER EIGHT: Distant Early Warning **_

Luke came awake to shift position. With a groan, he fell back into a blue abyss of dreams.

Prized, he was, as very few could play the phiob well enough to reanimate the ancients' great deeds. This is why he was spared, when the others were not.

As the dreamer stood on the balcony, he cursed the darkened moon for shedding no light on the path that the Righ would return home by. He had been gone for nine days, and expected back home before now.

There was only one way available to him to send a warning. The raiders were clever enough that they would glean what he was doing without much delay. If the Righ did not hear the song or did not understand its intent, then they would both die and their kinsmen would be reduced to a fear-filled and unyieldingly harsh life. He could control only the moment when he thought the Righ could hear the song.

Nine days had passed since the stronghold was breached. Nine days spent living, when he should have burned with his family and comrades. Nine days spent doing the marauders' bidding. Nine nights spent in misery. This night would be the last: he could wait no longer.

A sudden sensation spiked his senses into sharp awareness; a sound that he could not immediately identify for its faintness. He had no time to loose; if it were the Righ, the raiders would soon hear his approach, as he now did.

Placing the instrument against his lips, the dreamer breathed the Old Righ's favourite song into it, the same one he had played at his funeral. How ironic, then, that it would serve as his own requiem.

_**CHAPTER NINE: Cold Turkey/Whatever Gets You Thru the Night **_

No one had visited Luke in the several weeks since he'd been transferred to a private detoxification centre. Isolated by power, he grasped at a myth - an ideal -- to sustain him.

Shattered.

Worse than the heavy limbs, the percolating chills and the tremors, was the weight of weakness, by which ugliness managed to survive all the anguish and all the madness. He could only gain his own life apart from all others. His mind, shocked unendurably for so long, began a slow process of self-immolation.

In cooling formlessness, he roamed soberly past eight lit doorways and thirteen dimmed windows, toward a place where he knew there was no pain, where he could believe in anything again. The voids within the winds were the key: they cleansed him with their exhalations of aged use as surely as the heat burned away anything but immediacy.

Looking to the horizon, a vast thundercloud appeared, descending fast on top of the Wastes. A flash of lightning revealed the greatest of the birds, perched on the highest cliff. Extending its wings, it loosed its hold to glide slowly down to the ground. A crack of thunder called after it and, stretching out its legs, it stepped upon the ground as a man.

Reaching one arm up to clear a sheath of blue sky, the other pointed toward the sea of crystal rocks beneath his feet. Grounded, focused, and committed, he reclaimed the power of his will, and could act.

"I'm not scared anymore," he told her. Luke's call to his sister had finally been accepted.

They walked together, on the longest night of the year, onto Leia's garden courtyard. Looking into the face of the full moon, he murmured, "I'm ready to talk."

They spoke quietly with each other, the evergreen scented wind lifting their voices over the walls. When the words had finally been consumed, the first rays of dawn had brushed the horizon in crimson.

_**CHAPTER TEN: Dust in the Wind **_

**Tatooine**

A constant, furious dry wind drew and redrew patterns in the sharp sand, pushing through drifts in the streets and battering against doors. Geometric shapes were the only thing that distinguished Mos Eisley as something apart from the rest of the rippling, bleached landscape.

Ships rose from the port's bays like steam from ruptured bubbles. The port itself, analogous to the coarse rock it was stranded on, reflected the blazing sky, cloaking itself in the guise of a mirage.

Without preamble, a sweating mass straddled a stool and quipped, "The desert's a burning furnace, and only three kinds of creatures have fun in it: Tuskin Raiders, the insane, and gods." Raising his eyebrows, he asked, "Which one do you think you are?"

Luke smiled at the sarcasm. "Missed you too, Han. I'm sorry Leia decided not to come."

The other grunted, patting the perspiration from his upper lip. "Yeah, well, she told me to tell you that she's not mad at you anymore and that she loves you."

Han let a sack slip from his shoulder. "Here," he said, as it plopped on the floor. "A couple of bottles of wine from Lando and me, some bread that Chewie made, and Leia wrote the first chapter of that thing you're writing."

"It's called the 'Journal of the Whills'. It's a chronicle of our history, and ... you're not paying attention. By the way, have I mentioned that you're a lousy pilot?"

A container, filled with a thick brown liquid was slammed down in front of the old smuggler. "My hearing's still good, you know."

"It's not your hearing that's going," Luke baited, and pointed at the drink. "I'll have one of those, too."

Han smiled wickedly, and signalled the bartender. "Cheers," he saluted, then drained the container. Luke didn't notice the tears that flooded Han's eyes as a result.

Mimicking what he saw, the Hero of the Alliance attracted a lot of unwanted attention as he spit out the burning liquor. "What was that stuff?" He croaked.

Han chuckled, as he signalled for another round. "Payback for that pilot comment." Sobering, he continued. "Now, on to business. You don't suddenly give up everything to be a hermit writing some boring book."

Luke smiled as he glanced at his reflection in his drink. "You do if you need to change how you think."

Han closed his eyes and began to rub his forehead. "On a scale of one to ten, how big of a headache is this answer going to give me?"

"Here," he said, pushing his drink to the other's elbow, "this may help."

"It just might," Han shot back, sipping the concoction this time. "Alright, I asked, so I guess you ought to be able to answer."

The old Jedi Master surveyed the mixture of races that orbited the bar, then began, "What scared me away is that, now that I understand what's to come, I might act on things that would otherwise scar my conscience. Do you understand what I'm warning you of?"

"I know you," came the dismissive reply. "You could never hurt innocent people. The fact that you're scared about it should be proof enough."

Luke snared his brother-in-law's eyes, and in a poisonous voice said, "Then you do not know what sits before you." He held the gaze a moment longer, then tensed and broke contact. "I'm not looking to live in the past by coming here, but I do have to regain some of that optimism I had so much of as a boy. Otherwise the end will come too swiftly and I won't be able to see it for the journey it has to be."

Han forced himself to look at his hand, willing it to bring the container to his mouth. As the liquid swirled and swirled around his dry gums, he grew convinced that Luke was insane. Without the ability to reason, a monster would be loosed upon the galaxy. "A person's past is a large part of who he is," he mumbled. "You can't just ignore everything that's happened to you since you were a kid, just because some of it hurts. You need to deal with pain, like everyone else does."

"Except that I also have to deal with everyone else's pain," he said as quietly, eyes fixed but unfocused. "It's like a creeping dampness that blocks out everything I need." Luke grew more agitated as he spoke. "All I can see now is that I ... you, Leia, this world, the New Republic, the galaxy - all of it -- is disposable within mindless cycles!"

Frustrated, Han clumsily pushed his stool onto the foot of a passing alien, as he stood. "What the hell are you talking about," he exploded. "I'll tell you what you need: you need something to yank your head out of this fantasy you've conjured up! Maybe a hard kick in the ass will do the job!"

A flash of beige cloth flew past his ear. Han turned his head to see Luke's hand trapping the clenched fist of the injured alien. The Jedi flicked his line of sight to a fixture on the bar, then back again to the alien. A moment later, something broke against its shoulder. Considering the amount of alcohol it had obviously consumed, it pivoted quickly, trying to locate its new attacker. When no one appeared as the likely suspect, it started randomly punching the nearest patrons.

"Now we have the distraction I need," Luke shouted over the din. "Listen to me very carefully, because it took me over two, very long, hard years to realise the cause of what was assaulting me."

Grabbing Han's elbow, he led him away from the expanding brawl to a booth on the other side of the bar. "Astronomical Sciences' confirmed privately with me that a 500 million solar-mass black hole has formed near the centre of our galaxy. And that's not the end of it: the Abell Galaxy will collide with us because of this galactic cannibalism."

Han sat down heavily. "That can't be right," was all that he could manage to say.

Luke closed his eyes and sighed in emancipation. "A.S., and maybe the most powerful of the O.R. Jedi Masters, knew of this, but kept silent originally because it was so far in future, and later because such information would cause vast chaos and anarchy. Their logic was that it was better to let people be content with the present."

He sucked in a breath and briefly held it. "We have maybe twenty to forty years left."

Han stared at his brother-in-law, stunned. "That can't be right. I don't understand, nothing like that moves so fast. That can't be right."

Luke reached forward and lightly clasped his wrist. The contact felt good. "You don't have to understand it. You'll need to accept it at some point, because there is nothing that can stop it.

"I wish we didn't have so much time left to think about it. The problem is that we're not technically mature enough to save all or even most of the lives in our galaxy. Without an objective, hope cannot live, and that's the only objective I can see."

Han began to pace, unable to remain anchored. "I'm having trouble with this. You're telling me that those stupid popular articles, the ones that only the gullible read, were right all along?!" He stopped, clamping a hand across his mouth. Unable to accept defeat passively, he said, "There must be some way to contain this black hole cluster."

"Like a Dyson Sphere?" Luke shook his head, remembering the same question he, himself, had posted to the Astronomical Sciences Director. "That's only a theory at this point. This is not something we can fight against. There's no strategy that will prevent its conclusion."

He subsided into nascience of his friend, of the bar, or of anything other than the divesting of what he had smothered beneath his protective veils. Finally, another knew the truth; and so, that was all that was left to him. "Did you know that, beneath their coverings, the Sandpeople are beautiful, with hair as black as the base of Coruscant, and eyes ... eyes the colour of the earth after an invaluable rain."

"What are you talking about? Our galaxy is dying, and your going on about pretty desert nomads?!"

Luke continued to speak, wading through Han's shock and fear. "Their appearance is only revealed to their mate -- not even others in their own tribe may look upon them. Their beliefs and perspectives are satisfyingly simple.

"Things are either this way," he set his left hand, palm up, on the tabletop to emphasise his point. "Or it's that way." The right hand turned, palm down, at the opposite end of the table. "There's no unnecessarily complicated issues dividing the two extremes. Once I can accept this mentality, things will be fine.

"This is how our story should be told, simply, for whoever reads it. I'll signal Leia to get the probe ready when I'm done."

"Wait a minute," Han said, looking at the difference in age between his brother-in-law's natural and artificial hands. "It took me a minute for my overloaded brain to process what you said ... are you telling me you married a Tuskin Raider?"

Luke sat back, and leaned against the wall, but did not respond directly to the question. "Han, eventually, seclusion won't be enough," he whispered. Then his betraying lips pulled into small smile that revealed a great disturbance beneath the calm demeanour. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew his head deeply into his shoulders.

Han's fear had evolved to include his wife and grown children. The thought of his Force-sensitive family suffering like the Master across from him, made bile rise to burn the back of his throat. "Maybe we should move here, on the Outer Rim, with you. We'd be together for it."

Luke sighed, heavily. "I know this is terrifying, but do you realistically see yourself being satisfied on what you've always called a "dust ball"?"

The old spacer answered in silence, and started scratching off flakes of cracked plaster from the wall behind him.

"You know that Leia wouldn't be happy here either. Tatooine is a perfect place for my own needs: there's no sound that overpowers the tone of the wind; there's nothing obscuring the space between the ground and the sky -- it has the illusion of being infinite; and, I think it's here where I can find peace. It's not where you or Leia will find it."

Han paused in his nervous abstraction. "Luke, look at me and tell me straight: will Leia and the kids be in pain?"

The responding pause was fractional, but unacceptable. "As this phenomenon gets closer, they'll start to feel the ... the deaths of worlds." The Jedi squeezed his eyes shut against the mental mutilation; his breath becoming compressed and laboured.

Worried, Han circled the table. The only assistance he could think of was to lock his hands around his companion's small shoulders to steady him. "Easy, now. Do you need a medic?"

Luke shook his head negatively and, after awhile, the close contact seemed to ease his distress. "Promise me," he whispered, "that you'll do what is necessary if it becomes unbearable."

When his eyes opened, awaiting the response, Han instinctively backed away a step. Looking into the fading blue eyes at what horrors lingered in residue to shatter his nights, he whispered in kind, "And is it now unbearable for you?"

The Last of the Old and First of the New stood, smiling at the unexpected insight. "I don't know," he said honestly. Then hoisted the sack of gifts, and walked away.

Sand billowed in uneven blasts through the streets, rattling loose debris in a telltale clamour. On cue, vendors began to swiftly tear down their stalls, carrying their goods and displays indoors. The port's entire population scurried as one to find shelter, and within minutes, Mos Eisley looked like a ghost town.

A cloaked figure walked, unperturbed, towards the city limits. A vendor, arms overflowing with his wares, ran past. Recognising the famous face, he yelled a warning to him. "Get inside, there's a storm coming!" But Luke Skywalker continued walking until he was swallowed by the desolate, effortless winds of the desert.

_**"... And in the time of greatest despair there shall come a saviour,  
and he shall be known as: THE SON OF THE SUNS ...  
From the beginning they were vastly outnumbered by  
the systems held in thrall by the Emperor. In those  
first dark days it seemed certain the bright flame of  
resistance would be extinguished before it could cast  
the light of new truth across a galaxy of oppressed  
and beaten peoples..." **_

'Journal of the Whills', 3:127/ "The First Saga"

_**"They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Naturally they became heroes." **_

-- Leia Organa of Alderaan, Senator (1)

--------------------------------  
(1) 'Star Wars: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker', by George Lucas. Del Rey Books, Ballantine Books, New York. 1976 (First Edition), Page 2.


End file.
